


The Trouble With Napoleon

by red_b_rackham



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Action, Beta Branch Stocking Stuffer 2015, Christmas, Gen, Humor, I Hate You Stop Saving My Life, Mission Gone Wrong, Reluctant Bros, The Beta Branch, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5615764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_b_rackham/pseuds/red_b_rackham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya always knew that, one day, Napoleon’s womanizing ways would get them into trouble. He’d just hoped he’d be very, very far away when it happened. The fact that it comes back to haunt them at Christmas is really the icing on the cake. (Oneshot)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trouble With Napoleon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deannie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/gifts).



> I was stupid excited to see a Man From UNCLE choice in Deannie's prompt list for the Beta Branch Stocking Stuffers this year. I frakking adore that movie and have been dying to fic it, so here we are (and finally publishing it). :D Merry Christmas, darling!
> 
> Thanks to the ever lovely [stars_inthe_sky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stars_inthe_sky/pseuds/stars_inthe_sky) for awesome beta help. :D

“And one more, if you don’t mind.” Napoleon flashed the woman behind the counter a quick smile.  
  
“Of course, sir,” she replied, retrieving another chocolate box from the nearby display.  
  
While she wrapped that one with a fresh sheet of gold paper, Napoleon addressed the other three boxes spread across the counter. His pen strokes were elegant and flowing as he wrote, _To my darling Ginger…_  
  
Behind him, Illya cleared his throat. On the second one, Napoleon penned, _To my darling Yolanda…_  
  
“Ahem.”  
  
Ignoring his impatient partner, Napoleon moved on to the third box. _To my darling Joan…_  
  
Another loud throat clearing from behind him.  
  
“Yes, Illya?” Napoleon said, not lifting his eyes from his handiwork.  
  
The Russian huffed and came to stand beside Napoleon. “We don’t have time for this. We’re supposed to be—”  
  
“And we are.” Napoleon flashed another wide, charming smile at the woman ringing up his purchases.  
  
“We will lose him,” Illya warned, glancing over his shoulder at the big shop window.  
  
“We won’t.” Napoleon handed the woman a wad of cash and she smiled prettily back at him. “I had to buy my Christmas presents while I had the chance. Who knows where we’ll be shipped off to next, Peril?”  
  
Illya snorted.  
  
The woman continued bagging the golden boxes, and Napoleon tugged the fourth one towards him. _To my darling Betty…_  
  
“Would you like that one packed up as well?” she inquired.  
  
“No, thank you,” said Napoleon. He took the bag from her outstretched hand. He pushed the fourth box back across the counter to her. “Merry Christmas, Betty.”  
  
The woman’s face flushed bright red and she sputtered with delight and surprise. Napoleon offered her a wink and turned on his heel for the exit. Illya followed, and Napoleon didn’t have to look at him to know the Russian was scowling with disapproval.  
  
“You are unbelievable,” Illya grumbled the moment they’d left the shop.  
  
“I’m efficient,” Napoleon corrected, settling down on the nearby bench. He glanced at his watch, then up at the hotel across the street. A cold wind swirled down the frosty street, and he tugged his herringbone car coat a little tighter around him.  
  
Illya leaned against the bench. “I imagine Gaby is having a better day right now.” He blew on his hands to warm them.  
  
“Mm, I imagine so. Puerto Rico is sure to be sunny this time of year.” Napoleon picked up the newspaper left behind by someone else and unfolded it. “By the way, have you two—”  
  
“No,” Illya cut him off sharply.  
  
Napoleon smiled behind the newspaper. “Really? You seemed awfully chummy in Istanbul.” The bench squeaked where Illya’s fist were likely clenching the metal. “Relax, Peril. I’m teasing. Honestly, you make it too easy to get a rise out of you.”  
  
Illya mumbled something decidedly unpleasant in Russian.  
  
Across the street, the hotel door opened and a pair of men emerged: Chuck Davenport, the actor, and his manager. Waverly had been keeping an eye on the pair for months, suspecting that one of them, if not both, were involved in smuggling illegal weapons between countries under the cover of Chuck’s filming duties.  
  
Christophe Dumont, the manager, turned his collar up against the bite of the chilly air. Chuck smoothed his dark hair away from his face.  
  
Napoleon turned the page in his paper. “Showtime.”  
  
  
~  
  
  
On Christmas Eve, Napoleon and Illya followed Chuck Davenport and his manager to Estepona, Spain, where it was decidedly warmer than London.  
  
Illya chose the motel, and Solo regarded their room with a slight frown of disdain. “Really? Here?”  
  
Illya tossed his bag onto one of the creaky beds. “This is good location and is inconspicuous.” He shucked his jacket.  
  
Napoleon set his bag down on the second bed. Truly, he’d bunked in far worse accommodations, but it had been a very long time since he was last in Spain. He’d rather been hoping for a much more pleasant venue from which to enjoy the city. Count on the Russian to spare no real thoughts on things like _comfort_ and _pleasure_ , even on a mission. And on Christmas Eve, no less.  
  
Napoleon sighed through his nose. This was shaping up to be a pretty terrible Christmas.  
  
“Next time, I pick the hotel.”  
  
  
~  
  
  
The agents soon intercepted a coded message for _C.D._ , with instructions to bring the cargo to a particular location at a particular time. This would have been more helpful of a discovery had both of their quarries not had the initials “C” and “D,” and had the location and time not been “same place, same time.” There was nothing to be done but split up, follow the actor and his manager, and see which one lead the spies to the illegal weapons.  
  
Illya left to tail Davenport, while Napoleon went after the actor’s manager, Christophe Dumont.  
  
After a secretive meeting in a closed-up cafe, Dumont did nothing remarkable for the rest of the day. Finally, around quarter after eleven, Dumont exited his hotel. Napoleon tailed him to the edge of the city, where he parked at an old factory by the water. As Napoleon watched, the man hauled a crate out of the trunk of his car and dragged it inside.  
  
Napoleon darted from shadow to shadow, following the man into the factory. The smells of dust and stale engine oil assaulted his nose. He grimaced and pressed on toward the sound of voices. Napoleon’s fingers tightened slightly around the handle of his gun. He could make out Dumont’s wheezy voice, talking about weapon specs.  
  
_So we’ve nailed Christophe,_ Napoleon thought. _But what about his partner in crime?_  
  
The giant machinery blocked his view of the deal going down, so Napoleon edged as close as he could, hearing only two male voices trading remarks.  
  
Napoleon frowned. He was confident his presence had thus far gone undetected, but if he was going to nab the buyer as well as Dumont, he’d be forced to leave the shadowy edges of the factory. That meant being exposed, especially if Dumont had brought backup—though so far there was no indication that he had. Not that Napoleon couldn’t take them on as well, but it would be cleaner if he didn’t have to.  
  
Napoleon would’ve rather put a spike through his hand than admit it out loud, but he rather wished the Red Peril was here to cover his back. It was sad he’d already grown so used to his surly sidekick in the handful of missions they’d run together and with Gaby. But for now, Napoleon was on his own.  
  
Not wishing to waste any more time pondering, he sauntered into the light, gun at the ready. Dumont yelped and stumbled back a few steps, and the buyer whirled around in surprise.  
  
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Napoleon greeted with a cordial nod. “Nice night for an illegal weapons sale. Now if you’d please both put your hands in—”  
  
“Richard?!” a woman exclaimed. She emerged from the shadows behind Dumont, pale and shocked.  
  
With a jolt in his gut, Napoleon recognized her at once. A few years back, he’d been pulling a long con, working the wife of a shady, excessively rich man who had several particular illegally-obtained art pieces that Napoleon had wished to procure. The wife had been awfully heartbroken when he’d promised to whisk her away from her life and instead left with only her husband’s prized paintings.  
  
“Dolores?” Napoleon said. If this was who he thought it was, then the couple were now into illegal dealings together. He very much hoped he was wrong.  
  
“Richard, what—what are you doing here?”  
  
He wasn’t wrong. Oh, this was very bad indeed.  
  
The buyer—Dolores’ shady, rich, _angry_ husband looked between the woman and Napoleon. “That’s Richard?”  
  
“Well,” Napoleon cleared his throat. “This is awkward.”  
  
Worse, it turned out Dumont (or perhaps Mr. Dolores) had brought backup after all.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Illya was not happy that Napoleon had still failed to check in two hours after he was supposed to. He was even less happy about tracking his fellow agent to an old factory outside of town, which turned out to be partly on fire, full of the sound of shouts and gunfire.  
  
Illya grumbled out a string of Russian curses. Count on the Cowboy to turn a simple mission into a showy disaster. He clocked a burly guy in the face with his elbow then stole his large, automatic weapon. Illya ran between the massive metal machines inside the factory and downed two more men before he found Solo. The American had taken cover in what probably used to be an office and was trapped.  
  
“How did you—” Solo was cut off as a round of gunfire peppered the wall above his head. He ducked behind the steel desk, and Illya dove down beside him. The shooting stopped and Solo lifted his head to check their status. Illya saw he was sporting a sizable purple bruise on his cheek and a smear of blood near his hairline.  
  
Illya rolled his eyes. “Tracking device, of course.”  
  
The pair popped up in unison to blast at their enemies, then hunkered down behind the desk again.  
  
“I _found_ all your tracking devices,” said Solo, narrowing his eyes. “Including the ones in _both_ of my shoes. Was that really necessary?”  
  
Illya fixed the other man with a flat look. “Apparently, yes.”  
  
He wasn’t going to let Solo know that he’d planted decoy trackers in his shoes for Solo to find, but embedded the real ones inside the sole. It clearly had come in handy to know where the American had gotten himself into trouble. Again.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
Solo avoid eye contact and tried to cover for it by leaning around the desk to shoot. “Oh, you know,” he said blandly. “Things were under control, until they weren’t.”  
  
Illya frowned.  
  
“There may have been an old flame, and her…husband…”  
  
Illya cursed soundly. Honestly, at the rate Napoleon went through women, it was only a matter of time before one got the both of them into serious trouble. Illya had rather been hoping to be far away when that finally happened.  
  
Bullets thunked into the back of the desk. Illya reached around to fire back while Napoleon reloaded his gun. He’d be angry later. For now, they needed to get the stolen weapons and get out of here.  
  
He looked to the crate by Solo’s side. “The weapons?”  
  
Solo nodded. “Now that you’re here...” He poked his head above the desk to let off another round of gunfire. He sunk back down with a huff. “I don’t suppose you have a quick and clever escape plan?”  
  
Illya lifted one shoulder. “Quick? Yes. Clever? No.”  
  
The Russian pointed at the large window to their right, the one overlooking the moonlight-splashed bay. He shifted and showed Solo the contents of the small bag he’d brought with him. Solo groaned unhappily.  
  
“I said it was quick,” Illya reminded him. He made short work of the detonators, readying the C4 to explode.  
  
Solo threw his arm over the crate with a sigh. “Let’s get it over with.”  
  
Illya nodded. Together, they stood and emptied their guns in the direction of Dumont’s men. Solo used the crate to smash out the window while Illya laid down more cover fire. The crate went out first, followed by the American. Illya checked to see that Napoleon was out and lifted his bag.  
  
The split-second lapse cost him, and a bullet nailed him in the shoulder. He yelped but didn’t slow, launching his bag towards the shooters. He turned on his heel and threw himself out the window, just as the C4 ignited. The heat of the ensuing explosion rushed past Illya as he fell towards the water, followed by glass and debris.  
  
He hit the water hard and plunged under. Something smashed into his head. He fumbled, struggling against the sparks in his vision and the hole in his shoulder. His lungs screamed as he flailed in the darkness.  
  
Something snatched his collar and pulled him up; Illya broke the surface, gasping for air. His head pounded and his bleeding shoulder throbbed as he gulped in the chilly air.  
  
“You’re not a very good swimmer, are you?” Solo quipped.  
  
Illya might’ve thumped him had the American not just saved his life. Again. Instead, he focused on staying afloat and getting his bearings. The factory blazed behind them.  
  
He coughed and swam for shore behind Solo. “I’d be better if I wasn’t always trying to save _your_ idiot self first.”  
  
Illya gritted his teeth as every stroke pulled and tore at the wound in his shoulder. His vision was blurry, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the blow to the head or the water or something else. Just when he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it, his feet touched the muddy ground. Illya hauled himself forward and collapsed onto the sand, head swimming.  
  
Solo pushed the weapons crate up beside him, out of breath. The American leaned against it and shoved wet hair out of his eyes. “Not the best Christmas I’ve ever had, I have to say.” He shrugged. “Not the worst, either, come to think of it.”  
  
Illya groaned.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Back at the motel, Illya patched himself up as best he could with the meager first aid kit. His head was feeling better, although whatever had hit him had left him bleeding. Once he’d cleaned the bullet hole in his shoulder—a through-and-through, thankfully—he was ready to climb into the cheap, springy bed and sleep for an entire day.  
  
Maybe this wasn’t Cowboy’s worst Christmas ever, but being shot, banged up, stuck in a crappy motel far from home, and with Cowboy himself, ranked high on Illya’s list. He frowned at his pale reflection in the mirror, complete with wet hair and growing bruises on his jaw and forehead.  
  
When Illya came out of the bathroom, he didn’t quite know what to make of the sight that greeted him. Solo was by the dingy window and had inexplicably taken the guns from the crate and was forming them into a…cone?  
  
“What is this?” Illya blurted.  
  
“Well, it _is_ Christmas, so I thought…” Solo looked a little sheepish. “It’s all we have in this hovel.”  
  
The smallest guns were balanced near the top, with the larger guns fanning out towards the bottom. Somehow, the American had wired several bullets together in the shape of star and attached them to the top of the tower of guns. It was so ridiculous, Illya couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped his lips.  
  
“Is this supposed to be a Christmas tree?” Illya settled into the creaky chair by the gun-tree. “This really _is_ the worst Christmas ever.”  
  
Solo grimaced. “I _am_ sorry about all this, you know. It ought to have been a simple matter of taking down Dumont and his buyer. Instead, you got shot and we had to blow up a factory. And on Christmas, no less.”  
  
Illya rolled his eyes. He wanted to say something cutting because, yes, he was actually quite irritated by how incredibly their simple mission had gone wrong. And because that was due to Solo and his habitual womanizing. But Solo was standing there with an extra package of fresh bandages, looking so very, very sorry and hopeful that Illya couldn’t help a genuine (if very small) smile.  
  
Solo passed him the bandages. “Here, from my pack.”  
  
Illya took them gratefully, having used up all of his supply already. He’d need to change the ones on his shoulder before they shipped out tomorrow morning. He sighed through his nose, running his fingers along the edge of the white fabric.  
  
“And here,” Solo turned and scooped up a pair of mugs from the table. “It’s…well, it’s also all we have.”  
  
He passed the mug that wasn’t chipped to Illya. It smelled rich, and while Illya had certainly had better hot chocolate, this tasted awfully good after the cold plunge in the bay. Solo settled into the other chair, and Illya decided to let him off the hook. For now. And only because it was Christmas.  
  
“Maybe,” he said, sipping at the warm, frothy liquid. “Maybe it is not the _worst_ Christmas.”  
  
Solo smirked and he silently took a sip of his own hot chocolate. Illya glanced at the strange, and yet entirely appropriate, Christmas tree and let out another chuckle.  
  
He raised his mug in Solo’s direction. “Merry Christmas, Cowboy.”  
  
“Merry Christmas, Peril.”  
  
**-end–**

**Author's Note:**

> So according to what I've read, Christmas in Russia actually happens on January 7th and is mainly a religious holiday. Their real celebration is more the week before, with festivals and New Year’s and what not. Additionally, in the days of the Soviet Union, Christmas was not every big or celebrated at all. I figure Illya’s been around the world enough to see and know other countries traditions, and hanging with an American means being aware of American Christmas (and sort of celebrating it ;D).


End file.
